


Callsign Utah

by mamalorian



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Chaotic Neutral!You, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Modern!Reader - Freeform, Pilot!You
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamalorian/pseuds/mamalorian
Summary: In which Mando continues about his habit of picking up strays.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've only seen this type of AU explored once. Let's see how it goes!

It’s not hard to find the wreckage, with the considerable amount of smoke and the unmistakable smell of burning fuel. It’s pungent, sneaking under his helmet and invading his senses. He can taste it in the back of his mouth, and his nostrils flare in an attempt to hold back on gagging. 

Just north of the plume of smoke, he can see a Jawa ship easing down one of the shortest dunes. He curses under his breath, sliding down the dune on his ass in an effort to speed up the trek. It’s a scorching and searing heat, the flames devouring every each of the ruined fuselage, and the fire pops and shoots off sparks to the left of him. He backs up cautiously, because he thinks that there’s no way someone survived this crash, this blazing inferno, when he spots a dark shape against the white of the sands, just  downwind from the fire. It takes a moment for it to register that it’s a body, a person crumpled in a flight suit and deathly still outside of the fluttering of tattered clothing. He breaks into a run, cursing the sandy terrain and his inability to just let things be. He’s left the boy on the ship longer than he needs to, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him when one of the villagers had mentioned a star falling from the sky and crashing into the thick and endless desert sand. 

He falls to his knees, gripping their shoulder to turn them over and is faced with a helmeted head, some sort of breathing apparatus hanging uselessly down the front. There’s a gentle rise and fall to the chest,  _ her  _ chest, he  realizes with suddenly clarity that it’s a small female, breath fogging up the front of the helmet. She’s surrounded by the ruin of what he assumes used to be the pilots chair, buckles and contraptions keeping her tied to everything. He’s going about releasing her from the confines when she shifts, raising a shaky hand to her face and giving a muffled grunt. 

“Careful.” He tells her, pressing her arm back down at her side. “Be still.  Gotta check you over.” She’s suddenly so still that it spooks him, but she’s just passed back out and probably for the best because he means to check her for injuries before moving her. He gets under the flight suit, she’s warm and sweating hard, her skin revealing that she’s human and just a little slip of a thing really. She’s small, fine bones and healthy and with a flash of shame he thinks that this is the first time he’s touched a woman like this, pulling the flight suit down her shoulders and letting it pool behind her. She’s dressed in a thin undershirt, a silver chain tangled at her neck and the curve of her stomach is bare so he pulls it down quickly when he doesn’t see any immediate bruising there. He tugs at her arms and legs, freeing her totally from the suit before he removes the helmet, cupping the back of her head softly and letting it lean against his upper hip. There’s a trail of blood from her forehead down, curving across her nose and gathering at the corner of her pinched mouth. He probes the crown of her head with agile fingers and she winces but doesn’t rouse when he finds a weeping head wound, blood dripping over his gloves and thigh. She looks young, round face still full of baby fat and surrounded by hair the color of a tarnished imperial coin. 

He checks all around them, seeing if there’s anything of use he could place her on, maybe pull her behind him on part of the wreckage but there’s nothing really large enough so he resigns to carrying her. She grunts and gasps when he picks her up, getting her over his shoulder with a stunted apology, she’s heavier than she looks and his knees pop when he rises to his full height. 

Something rectangular falls from her pocket but he has to leave it because the Jawa ship is closing in and the last thing he wants to deal with is those  _ Kriffing _ bastards. He has to swap her over to his other shoulder  mid way back to the Razer Crest, the dead weight is killing him, or maybe he’s just getting old. 


	2. Chapter 2

The return trip to the Razer Crest takes twice as long, with the extra weight slowing him down and his boots sinking into the unforgiving sand. The child is waddling around the cargo bay when he returns, and he looks delighted despite the  Mandalorian’s mild scolding. He deposits her limp form on his bunk, arranging her limbs flat and stepping back to duck into the fresher and digging around for the spare  medpac and a clean rag to wipe the soot from her face. 

He can hear the child entering the room, soft coos and scuffling sounds that he assumes is the boy trying to climb up on the bunk, ever the curious sort. The Child is curled against the woman’s shoulder, his little hand extended and concentration blanketing his features, it startles Mando and he swoops the child up and in his arms. The little one shudders and blinks up at him, disoriented and sluggish, and Mando cuddles him close before laying him at the foot of the cot, where he’s made a small nest of blankets that the Child can lay in at night. “Stay there.” He orders, settling his weight on the edge of the bunk, the woman’s arm snug against his covered knee and cleans the streaking soot from her face, the ash clinging to her lashes and blood crusted at her mouth. Her eyelids tremble when he examines the crown of her head, discovering the child must have healed it already because its dry and feels partially scabbed over, so he resigns to cleaning her up the best he can and checking all her extremities again. He feels his face heat when he has to push her shirt up to roll her over to check her back and shoulders, trying to keep his touch clinical when he disrobes her down to her unclothes and socks, the child watching him with a contemplative expression. If she’s hurt any further, its internal and won’t be revealed until she wakes, so he leaves her in the now gloomy bunk, the light from the ‘fresher spilling across her cheeks and highlighting the dark circles forming under her eyes. He tucks the boy in the crook of his arm, climbing up and into the cockpit, staring out into the eternal sands and the high rising column of black smoke. 

Sometime later he wakes the child up to eat and leaves him gnawing on a supply bar, checking the bounties docked in the carbonite chamber before pausing at the doorway to his bunker, an abrupt flash of alarm when he sees that the room is empty. There’s a sudden sound of scuffling that has Mando darting back towards the ladder and right into the path of a swinging pipe. He manages to dodge the first swing with a grunt of surprise, and he’s ready for the second one that whirs through the air towards his helmet, catching it at the end and ripping it from the hands of his assailant. She’s blinking up at him with wide, uneasy dark eyes before she back peddles, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

“God damn Commies got my ass!” Before she can get too far, he makes a grab for her upper arm in an attempt to subdue her. “Calm down!” He barks, and she struggles harder trying to get her knee into his groin, it glances off the  beskar on his thigh and she howls with pain, falling back and taking him down with her. They wrestle around, rolling into one of the cargo crates and it spills over, scattering its contents and he curses out loud. She uses his momentary lapse to get a leg out from under his thigh and wrapped around his upper hip, distracting him with the sudden intimacy of their position and uses her body weight as leverage to flip them over. They crash into something else, probably the small table bolted to the floor because his helmet bounces off something metal and he can feel her scrambling to get his gun from its holster, wrapping a firm grip around her wrist Mando tries to gain control of the situation, but his yelling only spurs her on and she gets her forearm against his neck before he can tuck his helmet down and cover himself. She looks feral above him, nearly naked with tan skin on display and a flush dotting her face and neck, panting in exertion with her thighs tight around him. She applies enough pressure to this throat so that he can’t swallow without choking, and he releases her wrist with a flourish and slowly rises his hands up, fingers splayed and palms empty. 

“M’not gonna hurt you.” He croaks gently, watching her eyes bounce all around his helmet, breathing through her nose and wild eyed she lets her arm up and hustles off him, dropping into a crouch to pick up the discarded pipe and holding it out in front of herself like a shield. He takes a minute before he rises, keeping his hands out in front of him, like he’d done with the blurrg. 

“M’not gonna hurt you.” Mando repeats. “Would have been a waste of medical supplies if so.”

Those wild eyes squint in consideration of him, it’s a speculative gaze that he doesn’t find any comfort in. “You don’t sound like a communist.” 

“I’m not?” He says, flinching at the inflection of the question in his tone. He’s not sure what she just called him, but she raises an eyebrow and waves the pipe at him one handed. “I don’t trust Commies.” She says, in a matter of fact tone, like he knows exactly what she’s referring to.

“That’s good. Smart too.” He tries to sound placating, and it must work because she’s holding the pipe further down, closer to her side and while she is still watching him warily, she’s calming a bit, controlling her breathing.

“What branch are you with?” She asks casually, and he tilts his head a bit, shrugging his shoulders. Wrong body language, because she tenses up, coiled like a snake. “Military, bucket head. What military branch are you with?”

“I’m a Mandalorian.” Mando says, simply. “Is that some dumb Marine thing? Those sonsabitches are always coming up with weird shit – WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!” She points the rail at the child, backing up against the hull of the ship and when the child waddles closer to her she brandishes it like a sword, making his protective instincts kick in. Mando snatches the child up and barks at her. “He’s just a baby!”

“A baby what? Gremlin? Jesus H Mister I must have hit my fucking head or something.” Her face flashes an  ungodsly shade of green, and she swallows hard before she doubles over and pukes her guts out, stomach contents and acid splattering across her legs and feet before dotting the floor.

Great, he thinks. I just cleaned in here yesterday.


End file.
